Riddles in the Dark

The sphinx stared at her from across the gallery, its limestone face eroded but somehow knowing. Elena stood before it, wine glass trembling in her hand, feeling like the answer to a riddle she'd never been asked.

"It's magnificent," David whispered behind her, his breath hot on her neck. "Like it's been waiting three thousand years just for us."

Three months into the affair, and still she couldn't decide if she was living or drowning. Marcus was at home probably, walking Bear—the massive Newfoundland they'd adopted after her father died, the one who now reminded her of everything she'd lost and everything she'd chosen.

Her grandmother's voice echoed in memory: *"Marriage is the sphinx, malysh. Devour those who cannot solve it, let pass those who pretend to."* Elena had pretended for seven years.

"My wife has nightmares about ancient Egyptians," Marcus had told her once, as if it were charming. "She says their statues watch her."

They had no children. Just Bear, who had developed hip dysplasia last year, and the cat—Cleo—that Marcus had brought home from a construction site, named with that heavy-handed irony that should have been her first warning.

"You're not thinking about him, are you?" David's hand found her waist.

The sphinx's missing nose seemed accusatory. The museum gala swirled around them in expensive silk and hollow laughter. She thought of Cleo waiting at home, how the cat would sit for hours staring at nothing, as if seeing ghosts Elena couldn't.

"I have to go," she said.

David's face fell. "Elena—"

"The dog. Bear. He's been sick."

A lie. Bear was fine. But she suddenly needed to see something real, something that hadn't been curated or polished or framed for display. She drove home through rain-slicked streets, half-hoping Marcus would be asleep, half-hoping he'd be waiting.

The house was dark. Bear's familiar bulk greeted her at the door, his tail thumping against the wall. Cleo wound around her ankles, purring like a small engine.

Marcus appeared in the bedroom doorway, silhouette against the hallway light. "You're early."

"The sphinx," she said, and the word stuck in her throat. "It was watching me."

"Elena." His voice cracked. "I know about David."

Bear pressed against her leg, a solid, living thing. For the first time in seven years, the riddle seemed answerable.

"I'm sorry," she said, and didn't know which one of them she meant.